Those Who Keep Silence
by skyewardfitzsimmonsphilinda
Summary: From this prompt for skyeward-fanfiction: "set before anything hydra, ward has the flu and skye takes care of him."


"_We must learn to regard people less in the light of what they do or omit to do, and more in the light of what they suffer."__ –Dietrich Bonhoeffer_

"_To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one… Lock it up safe in the casket… It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable."__ –C. S. Lewis_

"_I have learned now that while those who speak about one's miseries usually hurt, those who keep silence hurt more."__–C. S. Lewis_

It seemed darker than usual when Ward woke around 1 am. It was the night after Coulson had been recovered from Raina and the Clairvoyant, and the stress had worn the whole team down.

What he felt now, though, was more than just stress.

He had barely made it to the bathroom before he vomited. It was a long night after that, and he was in and out of the bathroom at least once every hour until his alarm went off at five in the morning. He was frustrated and weak and utterly exhausted. He had experienced multiple injuries over his training and his lifetime, but he hadn't had the flu since childhood.

Ward remembered two different occasions where he had been sick. One had been before his Gram had died, when he and his little brother Dana had been living with her. He had been eight, and Dana had been six, so being sick had meant a day off school and Gram pampering them, so he hadn't minded.

And then there was the second time.

It was after Gram had died, and he and Dana were back with their parents and sister… and Maynard.

Getting sick had been a nightmare.

Ward shivered, miserable with memories and weariness. Something as insignificant as the flu shouldn't be bothering him this much, he told himself feebly.

He exited the bathroom, shut off his alarm, and then headed back out into the common area. Skye stumbled out of her bunk, her long dark hair in a massive tangle. She rubbed her eyes blearily, squinting at the dim light he had just switched on, and then looking up at him. "Are you okay?" she asked through a yawn.

"Yea, fine," he said automatically. _Fine _had been his default response since long before Garrett's training… since Maynard, in fact. _Fine, great, doesn't bother me. I'm strong. Untouchable. It's not a weakness. _

And he was just so damn tired of it all.

"You're a terrible liar," Skye told him, brushing her tangled hair out of her face. "Plus, you look like shit. Were you up all night?" Concern appeared in her sleepy face.

"I'm fine," Ward said feebly.

"Go to bed," she said dismissively, and when he opened his mouth, she shook her head, leaving no room for argument. "Nope. No arguments. Even Agent Grant Ward needs a break sometimes, and you've got the flu—or food poisoning, maybe, it was Fitz's turn to cook last—so you're going to bed. No buts."

On any other day, he would have fought her on it, but it had been a long night, so he turned and walked obediently back into his bunk room.

She followed unapologetically, and he raised his eyebrows.

"You're pale. And I mean _really_ pale," she said. "Sit down."

He dropped into his bed, hoping desperately that, finally, he would be able to sleep. It was almost instant—as soon as his head dropped onto the pillow he started drifting off. He barely paid attention as Skye fussed around him, but as his consciousness faded, he felt a soft hand tucking a blanket over him, and a second later, gently brushing hair from his forehead.

And he rested, finally, after a long night of getting sick…and a long night of memories and the guilt that came with them; guilt that intensified with each thought of Coulson and the team that cared so much… a team he could never really be part of.

But none of this bothered him while he slept—because for the first time in as long as he could remember, Grant Ward slept without dreams. Perhaps some small part of him knew that she stayed beside him as he slept, tucking his blanket around him, bringing him something to drink should he wake, tucking her hand into his. So Ward rested peacefully, his hand in Skye's, because this girl could make sleeping in a tiny bunk room on a plane feel like coming home.

When he awoke several hours later, he found her still sitting on the floor next to his bed, her hand in his, fast asleep. Her mouth was slightly open, and her dark hair lay in tangles around her shoulders—she hadn't even left him to brush her chair or change out of her sleeping clothes.

He was feeling better—not sick to his stomach anymore, at least—but still bone tired, and when he tried to sit up, his head spun.

Skye woke, and tugged on his hand sleepily. "You're staying in bed, mister," she yawned.

"Yes, ma'am," he said wearily. "Does Coulson know that you're keeping me prisoner here?"

"Prisoner?" she grinned. "Is that how you look at it?"

He held up the hand she was still holding. "I'm shackled, see?" he joked feebly, trying to laugh, but even that effort made him feel dizzy.

She released his hand, and instantly he felt a little colder.

"I'll go tell him now," she said. "It's only nine, and it's Saturday, so he won't expect me up for another hour or so anyway. And _you_ need to keep resting, Ward. That's an order."

Ward grinned and closed his eyes. "You'll be back?"

"Of course."

Skye returned ten minutes later, carrying a tray with a glass of some liquid—sprite, maybe?—and a plate with crackers and pretzels on it. "I brought you ginger ale," she said, and then looked a little embarrassed, her face falling. "I had a foster mom once…the one… the one I told you about? The one I called mom once? Anyway, when I was sick, she would bring me ginger ale and crackers. She said they were easy on your stomach. I don't know—maybe I shouldn't have"—

"Skye," he said gently, opening his eyes fully and looking up at her from where he lay. "Thank you."

She nodded, and then her look turned bright and mischievous again. "I had to steal the pretzels," she confessed. "They were under Fitz's bunk. And I stole the crackers from the kitchen. I think they belonged to May, because they weren't in the regular snack drawer, and I had to climb to the top cabinet—I nearly broke a bowl doing that, and my leg—to get them. I'm totally blaming you if she finds out they're gone."

"So basically you robbed the two most dangerous people on the plane," he said. "For me."

"Fitz? He's not dangerous!"

"He is when you take his snacks away," Ward said, sitting up just slightly.

"Hold on, I'll get you another pillow," she said quickly, and she disappeared and reappeared so quickly he thought she must have sprinted to bring him what he needed. "There, I brought two more."

"Please tell me you didn't steal these from someone, too," Ward said, and Skye just grinned.

"That would be unsanitary," she said. "I changed the pillow cases first."

Ward laughed out loud, and Coulson poked his head through the door at that moment.

"Ward, how are you feeling?" he asked, concern on a face that still had fresh bruises and scratches from his imprisonment. "And Skye, are you sure you should be in here? Ward might want to rest."

Ward struggled to sit up straighter, but Coulson shook his head, smiling slightly. "It's fine, sir," he said a little stiffly, his head spinning with the effort. "I don't mind having her here."

"Oh, you don't _mind_?" Skye scoffed playfully. "Are you doing me a favor by letting me take care of your sorry ass, Agent I'm-not-sick-even-when-I'm-pale-as-shit Ward?"

Coulson grinned. "Take today and tomorrow off, okay? And more time if you need it. I think we all need a bit of a break."

"What if we get orders, sir?" Ward protested. "Some missions can't wait."

"They can wait if I say they can wait," Coulson said dismissively. "You worry about getting better, and I'll worry about the missions." He withdrew before Ward could protest, and Skye grinned smugly down at her patient.

"He basically assigned me to keep you from doing anything stupid," she said. "You know, like getting up before you're actually better, and then getting dizzy and falling and hurting yourself. And you should really drink a little of that ginger ale."

He let her fuss, of course, because saying no to Skye was a virtual impossibility. She stayed with him all day, and fended off both Fitz—who came looking for his snacks and stayed because he was ridiculously over-concerned about Ward's health—and Simmons, who was demanding to take a look at him, because she was the one with the medical experience ("Don't be ridiculous, Simmons, he has the flu, not cancer." "Technically I don't really deal in cancer patients anyway"—"Simmons, you will be the first person I call if Ward starts developing signs of some heinous disease.").

Ward grumbled, of course—he considered it his duty when it came to Skye—but he enjoyed it; of course he did. He loved that she didn't leave his side; that no matter how light her comments were, her dark eyes watched his every move with such concern and compassion it took his breath away. And he loved the way she would laugh every time he grumbled, as if his pretenses were utterly sheer and she was looking straight through into his dark heart and finding light there, after all.

Skye read aloud from _Matterhorn_, a book Garrett had given him, for all of thirty seconds, and then chucked it on the floor and brought out Battleship. Ward dropped all pretense at being annoyed then, and put his (still recovering) heart, mind, and body into winning the game.

(Spoiler alert: no one ever beat Skye at Battleship).

After he had lost the third game in a row, Ward surrendered, laughing, as Skye gloated.

He threw a pretzel at her, and she threatened to pour the rest of his ginger ale on him and then tell Fitz he had wet the bed.

He stopped throwing pretzels.

It was late in the afternoon, and Ward was feeling better—well enough to sit up without getting dizzy. He hadn't gotten sick since early that morning, and he suggested to Skye that he would be ready to get up pretty soon.

Her look turned dark instantaneously, and Ward cowed under her scowl. "Just for a few minutes," he begged. "I wouldn't go very far"—

"No," she said. "Getting better takes time, and I am _not_ letting you out of here until I'm sure you've taken enough time, goddamnit. We could have a fourth game of Battleship?"

He grinned and nodded, and she reached out automatically to straighten his pillows for him. "I don't need to be babied, Skye," he protested, and she smacked him lightly on the arm.

"Well, if you're not going to take care of yourself, someone has to," she said nonchalantly, but the words stopped him in his tracks.

He looked at her—still messy-haired, still in her faded sleeping-clothes—and realized, for the first time, that perhaps caring was not a weakness he hated as much as he thought.

And that if this was getting better; if this was healing, than being sick in the first place was almost worth it…


End file.
